New Beginnings
by Omnia Mutantur
Summary: A direct sequel to the 1990 Liam Neeson film 'Darkman'. Peyton Westlake's life is in ruins, his lab destroyed, having now resolved to live as the Darkman. But what kind of life is that? A summary of the events in the film is presented as a kind of prologu
1. Before...

**Author's Notes:**  
This fic is based on the 1990 film _Darkman_. All names, characters and events from the original film are the property of Darkman Productions Ltd; they have been used here without permission. No copyright violation is intended, and no profit has been made from this piece of fan fiction. The first chapter is essentially a summary of the film, and the last few lines are quoted from it. Characters and events in this story not portrayed in the film are original and of my own creation - other authors are welcome to borrow them and incorporate them into their own stories (but please bring 'em back in one piece!).

I hope you enjoy this story - if you do, write one of your own! Please note that although this story has been given a PG-13 rating (an accurate and fair rating, I think), the original film (here in England, at least) was rated '18' (the equivalent of the American 'R' or 'NC-17' or whatever you guys call it). For the purposes of this story I have completely ignored the two sequels, both of which, I am assured, are not worth the celluloid they are printed on. The city in which the film was set was never specified - it was a fictional city. I have seen fit to leave it nameless in this sequel.  
O.M. 9-6-01

**Darkman:  
New Beginnings**

**Before...**

_My name was Peyton Westlake. I was an independent research scientist, and the project I was working on could have revolutionised the medical world._

_Skin grafts. There are thousands of them every year. Many are given to victims of accidents and crashes, but many more cannot be done, the injuries too severe, the techniques imperfect. I was inventing synthetic skin, precise, computer-controlled technology - only a photograph needed to create a perfect replica of a hand, an arm, a foot, or even a whole face. But the cells of the synthetic skin were unstable, they never lasted for more than 99 minutes before breaking down and melting._

_ Until the day the light dawned. In fact, it was the day the lights went out. The lights in our lab failed, and the skin did not break down. Somehow, it was exposure to light for 99 minutes that triggered the collapse of the skin's cell structure. It was a momentous day, a day I shall never forget. The day my life was destroyed._

_ Robert G. Durant and his hitmen, hired by real estate tycoon Louis Strack, filled my lab with gas, and blew it up. After shooting Yakitito, my assistant and dear friend, before my helpless eyes and half-drowning me in a vat of lab solvent, they blew up my lab with me in it, Strack thinking me a threat to the empire he was, literally, building._

_ I was found in the river, barely alive, and taken to an experimental burns clinic at the hospital. They treated my injuries, neutralised the parts of my spino-thalamic tract that sent pain impulses to my brain. I couldn't feel pain anymore, and my brain compensated by relying more on my emotions for stimulus. My adrenalin flowed unregulated, so I had great physical strength. But I didn't care. All I wanted was my life back, and the woman I loved...the woman I love...Julie Hastings._

_ Most of my equipment was destroyed in the blast, but I salvaged the essential components, tried to perfect my synthetic skin, but it always melted - only 99 minutes of stability. I found also that my emotions were now unstable, I was prone to violent outbursts, and with strength enough to do so I killed all those who had ruined my world, but still I told myself that all could be as it was._

_ Night after sleepless night I spent, telling myself it was just a burn, skin deep; it doesn't matter! [but my hands they took my hands and my face they took them **away**] And if I covered it, hidden behind a mask, Julie could love me for who I was, without pity. But a funny thing happened. As I worked in the mask, I found the man inside was changing. He became...wrong, a monster._

_ I can live with it now, but I don't think anyone else can._

_ Peyton is gone. I am everyone, and no one; everywhere, nowhere. Call me...Darkman._

_ _


	2. After...

**After...**

_I was sitting in the wreckage of my new home. I trapped members of Durant's gang here and blew them up as they had done to me only a month before. All that was left was the backup material I kept from my experiments. I am a scientist [not a monster i am **not a monster**] and I was methodical in my work. I had the money I took from Durant and Strack. I could buy the equipment I need, I have all my programs, all the software. But as I looked around I saw only my life, in ruins again. Like my face. In ruins, destroyed. I could see it, reflected in a bit of glass on the floor. All I could think of was Julie. I grabbed my coat and hat and ran._

_Perhaps you think I simply wanted to escape, that I could no longer face the woman to whom I had proposed a mere few hours before my disfigurement. But why couldn't I face her? She wanted me back. To my surprise, she had clung to me, and I wanted her back so badly. So why did I leave? I told her I could live with myself, with what I had become. Was I wrong? What had Strack told me? "You can't do it, you couldn't live with yourself." There was no fear in his eyes, as I held him there, 650 feet above the ground. I've learned to live with a lot. I can even live with the look on his face as it was overwhelmed by terror when I let go. Yes, I could live with it. Was it a desire for justice that made me do it? He was evil, corrupt. He bribed the Zoning Commission, the police force, had people killed. He was getting his punishment for placing his empire over human life [**my** life he **destroyed **it **vengeance is mine**]. _

_NO! It wasn't about revenge, that would make me [a **monster**] wrong, it would make me wrong. Wouldn't it?_

_I thought about all this as I wandered the dark alleys. It was in one of these alleys that I made my next mistake - I responded to a cry for help._

_It was a police officer, I could barely see his face in the half-light, attacking a whore. I had never liked prostitution, but he was beating her severely, a helpless woman who could offer no resistance. I felt the anger take control, the monster emerging despite my efforts to contain him. Something exploded behind my eyes, the world around me shattered [Yakitito shot **NO! NO!** electricity nodes **ARGHH! my hands** they took my hands] and all I could see was rage - not motivated by a sense of injustice, just anger._

_ I came out of the shadows and threw the man against a wall. He picked himself up, but came up short when he saw me. The look of fear on his face disappeared and turned to one of disgust. He could see my bandaged head beneath the wide brim of my hat. But I didn't care what the rational part of my brain was telling me. I lost control completely and knocked him down again, landing blow after blow, kicking, punching, gouging, snarling; I can't remember what I said or did, but he got up, and did not look back as he ran. There was blood on my hands, not my own - had I injured him that badly? The girl I had rescued looked at me with gratitude, but mostly fear, on her face._

_ She asked me who I was. The fury had not cleared, "I am Darkman," I growled before I could stop myself, and left, running, before I could say more, face in shadow under the brim of my hat, the cape and wide sleeves of my coat flying out behind me through the dirty back-alley. It was enough. Too much, even. I had been not motivated by a sense of right - the affairs of the police are their own - I was simply consumed with anger._

_The anger was vanishing, at least for now, leaving only despair and fear. Fear. Of myself, for myself. I can no longer stop myself acting, am no longer in control of my own body, my emotions running amok. Am I truly the Darkman? Has Peyton Westlake really gone? Perhaps this is how I must spend my life now, hiding my face in the dark, or behind the faces of other people. Is there an escape for me from this existence? I don't know. _

_Yes, Peyton Westlake truly is gone. But what monster lurks in his place?_


	3. Now...

**Now...**

Police Chief Claude Bellisarius strode through the door to the briefing room, his recently-acquired limp barely visible. Several of the more experienced officers exchanged knowing, apprehensive glances - the chief hadn't had enough coffee this morning and he was crabby. Claude Bellisarius would have agreed wholeheartedly were he in a better mood. Then again, if he was in a better mood he wouldn't need a coffee for another couple of hours, and would not, therefore, have been at all crabby.

Some days you just can't win. Bellisarius knew it would be one of those days. He also knew that the briefing had better be short enough for him to get his caffeine within the next ten minutes, or he wouldn't be able to control himself. _Woe betide the first smart-ass this morning_, he thought. He stepped up to the front of the room. He was a big man, not fat, just...big. And tall. His presence was all the more imposing for it, owing not a little to his craggy features.

"This had better be quick, because I have had only one cup of coffee this morning, and that is not good news for anyone who wants to be home before eleven this evening, so shut your mouths and listen up." The city's finest shut their mouths and listened.

"First, the murder of Louis Strack. As you know, he was one of our most prominent and successful businessmen. I want leads on his killer, and I want them now. I have assigned the case top priority. Turlon, Rainier, you've been given that one, but all of you keep your ears and eyes open, and give them whatever help they need.

"Second, prostitution." An uneasy rustling spread through the room. This was the precinct's least favourite subject. There was no effective way to bring an end to this particular problem. Drug-dealing, robbery, even murder, were all easier to deal with. You find somebody in possession of drugs or stolen property, you book 'em. If you get the dealer themselves or the actual thief and not the fence, well, it's your lucky day. You apprehend someone who fits the murder suspect bill, who has no alibi, the murder weapon and a guilty conscience, you get a commendation - case closed. But prostitution? You can't arrest someone for being in possession of provocative clothing. Loitering on street corners isn't an offense as such - all you can do is tell them to move on. Unless they're actively soliciting, there's nothing you can do. A thorny problem indeed. Bellisarius continued his briefing.

"Two young...ladies...were arrested for soliciting last night on the corner of Mason and Brunell. That's outside the red light district, gentlemen. Outside. They're getting braver and venturing further and further out of their usual sphere of influence. There is very little we can do except be more thorough on our patrols." Bellisarius looked pointedly around the room at this point. Nobody could meet his gaze.

"Of course, none of this is to interfere with you completing your regular assignments," a chorus of groans rose from the assembled officers, "which can always be made even more tedious, so _shut it_!" exclaimed Bellisarius in response, raising his voice. "And speaking of assignments, the new ones are right here at the front, so come and get 'em!"

He waited a moment for the officers to rise before clearing his throat for attention. "One last thing." His voice and face were both hard as flint now. The murmuring died down and everyone re-took their seats, preparing for the worst. It was confirmed when Bellisarius started talking - his tone sounded reasonable, and that meant trouble.

"You people are too busy to have seen a newspaper yet, but since I have nothing better to do, I've seen the early copy. And I don't like the look of the report on page five. When you get a spare thirty seconds for lunch, have a look. A police officer attacked a prostitute last night, you see, down by the old industrial district." Bellisarius's voice was getting softer and quieter.

"This city has enough problems with prostitution already, without its police force being accused of desperation to the extent of brutality. I don't know who it was," continued Bellisarius, almost whispering, "but if it was one of you, and I find you out..." Bellisarius's sentence tailed off for a moment, the room silent...

"...I'LL BREAK YOUR HEAD!" he finished, shouting so loud that the windows rattled a bit. The threat echoed around the room, and no one doubted that it was intended in a very literal sense.

"And now I'm going for my coffee, before I end up injuring one of you fools." And with that, he stormed out of the room. No one dared comment on the evil-looking swelling around the chief's right eye, or even the bandage down the left-hand side of his face.

Peyton Westlake, aka The Darkman, sat in the semi-darkness of his destroyed, makeshift laboratory in an old, abandoned industrial plant. He had bought the early edition _Herald_, wearing one of his many masks, hoping that his appearance the night before in the alleys had not been reported. He hoped in vain. There it was, on page five, the headline declaring the story: SHADOWY SAVIOUR IN BACKSTREET BRAWL. Peyton cursed himself for his stupidity. Why had he got involved? He knew. He had got angry again, his stimulus-deprived brain enhancing his emotional states to extremes of feeling. One day, not too far in the future, he would get himself into some severe trouble. He needed help. Desperately. But to whom could he turn?

A scraping sound snapped him out of his reverie. He jerked his head up. A figure stood in the doorway, framed in the early morning sunlight.

"Peyton?" 

_Julie? Jules! No, I can't..._he thought, but said nothing.

"Peyton, I know you're in here somewhere. Let's talk. Can't we just talk Peyt?" Her voice was shaky. She didn't know he was in here at all. She hoped. Westlake moved back further into the shadows, behind some old pipes, long since empty. Julie's voice was cracking.

"Please, Peyton - I don't care what you look like, I just want you back, I want our life back." She paused. A sob escaped her lips, a gasping, desperate sob. "Do you remember, just before the...explosion? That morning..." another sob. Westlake closed his eyes, balled his fists, rested his head back against the pipes. He knew her grief; he shared it. "You asked me a question Peyt." She seemed to have regained her composure, her voice still a little shaky. "You remember? You..." she broke down again, could barely form the words. "You asked me to marry you." She was sobbing uncontrollably now. "I will! Peyton, just come back and we can get married and we'll find the best plastic surgeon in the land, just..." her words came out in one long string, but she couldn't continue, just stood, crying. She got no answer. 

The gutted warehouse was silent. A tear rolled from Westlake's left eye, rested for a moment at the top of his cheek, the only unburnt section of his head, and then fell down his scarred face. When he turned his head, peering around the pipes, the doorway was empty. She had gone. "Julie..." he whispered. He walked a few paces, stumbled, and his legs went weak and gave way. He collapsed to the floor, wracked with guttural, wailing sobs. His whole body shook, his head in his hands. Alone in the debris-filled warehouse, alone in the world: a broken man. When he finally stood and dried his face, the sun was going down.

Todd Murphy knocked on his boss's office door. He'd been in a bad mood a couple of hours ago at the briefing, and Murphy hoped that he'd had a coffee or two by now. That would make the inevitable telling-off just that bit more bearable. That had to be why he had been summoned. Only that would explain why he hadn't received a new assignment.

"Come in!" called Bellisarius from inside. Murphy walked in. "Ah, Murphy. You've been doing well recently. Congratulations on that extortion case. Impressive work."

"Thank you sir. Er..."

Bellisarius chuckled. "No need to be so worried, Murphy, you're not here to get a dressing down." The other man looked puzzled. "You didn't get an assignment at the briefing because I have a special one for you. I didn't want the others to get a look at it." 

Murphy let out a sigh of relief, and decided to take a risk on the chief's seeming good humour. "By the way, sir, are you alright?" He gestured at Bellisarius's bruised face.

The man grinned ruefully, but the grin didn't reach his eyes, which were cold and appraising. "Nasty story involving a cat and a door, Murphy," he joked. Murphy grinned back, wary of those eyes, but when he looked again, they had cleared. 

Bellisarius slid a file across the desk. "Heard of the 'Darkman', Murphy?"

"Er, yes, sir. The prostitute in that newspaper article claimed that she'd been saved by a tall figure in an old full-length gentleman's coat and a wide-brimmed hat who called himself 'the Darkman'. Is this...?" Murphy indicated the file.

"Yes." Bellisarius stated, simply. "I want you to look into Murphy. I do not want a vigilante on my streets. Look what's happened in Gotham with that bat-man," he pronounced the word with derision, not even as a name, "and the Shadow character in New York back in the 30s. This is my city, Murphy, our city, and I will not have it turned into some kind of playground for one-man-army law-enforcers and the criminal mastermind scum that they attract like flies." Bellisarius was stern and clearly annoyed about the prospect.

Murphy gulped. "Yes sir!"

Bellisarius smiled. "I know you'll do a good job, Murphy. Don't forget, it's your turn to do the night patrol tonight. Remember what I said at the briefing. Dismissed."

The younger man practically leapt for the door. He didn't look back. If he had, he would have seen that the smile on Bellisarius' face had disappeared.

The Darkman stood alone in the twilight-soaked warehouse. Outside, the sky was a darkening blue and the first stars were beginning to show. The whole place was empty, like him. He smiled bitterly at the thought. He took up his bandages, and began to wrap them around his disfigured face. They had been left atop that morning's copy of the _Herald_. In which was the story of his rescue of the prostitute. When he had finished concealing his head from the world he grabbed up his hat and coat and walked out into the night.

It took him nearly two hours to find the back-alley he had visited last night. Sure enough, the girl he had encountered was there. He moved silently and rapidly up behind her.

"How are you?" he rasped. She screamed and turned jerkily, stumbling backward.

"You! What...what do you want?"

"I need to..." he was cut off by another woman's voice, coming from inside a doorway, and getting closer.

"What do you want now? Didn't you get..." The owner of the voice, a not unattractive woman, dressed relatively modestly considering her occupation, emerged. "Oh," she finished.

"Who were you expecting?" asked Westlake.

"Get inside, Nomi," she said to the girl, who complied. When Nomi had vacated the alley, the woman closed the door. "You are the Darkman." It was not a question. Westlake did not answer.

"I asked first. Now, who were you expecting?" He moved forward menacingly, but the woman was not impressed.

"You may call me Jenny. I...look after...these girls, so you can imagine that I've been around too long to be scared by a freak in a long coat, a hat and some designer bandages." She was about to continue, but found herself pressed back up against the wall. She hadn't even seen him move. Now she was scared. His guttural roar did not do anything to help the situation.

"Answer me!" he shouted in her face. "No more games!"

Her reaction was a defensive one. "Put me the hell down and maybe we'll talk!" she shouted back. He threw her down and turned away with a growl, visibly restraining himself. "I was expecting," she began, calmer now, "the individual that you so kindly drove away last night. Thank you for that, by the way. His name is Bellisarius, Claude Bellisarius." 

The change in the Darkman's posture was instant. He swung around to face her, but there was no aggression. Just shock. "The police chief?"

"Yes. Oh, come on, Darkman, or whatever the hell you are, don't be naïve! I'm running a business here, and so is he. Figure it out!"

"You _bribe_ him?" Westlake couldn't remove the surprise from his voice. It had certainly driven away the anger.

"I pay him to stay away me and my girls. We make enough money here - it's a worthwhile investment. If you want to call that a bribe, go ahead." She sighed a frustrated sigh. "Look, this country encourages private enterprise, yes? Well, this is one. We don't exactly come under the jurisdiction of the Inland Revenue, so think of the money I pay Bellisarius as tax." The Darkman was silent. Jenny was getting more and more agitated. "Morality is obsolete, Darkman! Business is all that remains, the acquisition of money. That's the code we live by now."

The Darkman's silence was unnerving her; she was not used to being unnerved. He stood, like a shadow in the moonlight, still and quiet. When he finally spoke she jumped and, realising she had stopped breathing, forced herself to inhale. "Why was he here?" The voice was soft, dangerous.

"He...Some of my girls have been getting too confidant. They have begun moving outside their normal area of operations." She fidgeted. "Part of the deal is that we confine ourselves to a certain area - that's where he benefits. Last night he came to...make a point." Once again, the Darkman was silent. She refused to let him unnerve her again, and took the initiative. "Now you know, what will you do?" Her tone was slightly mocking, but not enough to anger him - she hoped. "You can't confront him, you know. He has fingers in more pies than you know. Most of this city is under his control. Few know it. He was even accepting bribes from Louis Strack, you know. Strack paid him to keep the Force away from his building oper..."

She didn't get to finish her sentence. He was back, and this time with his hand around her throat, his face right in front of hers. All she could see were his eyes between the bandages. They were wide and crazed, murderous. She could see the tiny veins bulging around his pupils. _He's lost it completely. Out of control. I'm going to die, and I won't even know why._

"If you're lying I swear I'll kill you!"

Jenny abandoned all dignity and pride. "I'm not, I promise you, he told me all about it, Bellisarius did, I mean, he was so proud of himself, the arrogant fool, trust me, I wouldn't lie to anyone who was about to kill me, I'm not that kind of girl." 

She closed her eyes, expecting him to break her neck. But she felt herself falling, and when she opened her eyes she was on the ground in the empty alleyway. The Darkman had gone. It had been many a year since Jenny had lost her cool and gabbled like an idiot. Fear is often followed by anger. The Darkman had made an enemy today.

Murphy really hated patrol duty. It was dull, it was boring. Few criminals were stupid enough to do anything when there was an officer around. Fair enough, it acted as a deterrent - they'd just have to wait until he was gone to indulge in their illegal activities. Patrolmen rarely made an arrest, and Murphy did not like the reality of having to rely on the incompetence of the crooks. So he was quite surprised when he heard the roar. He stopped cold, his flesh prickling, wondering what on earth could have made that noise. It was guttural, and so full of rage that Murphy considered running back to his squad car and just driving away. He'd have felt better with a partner, but his partner had been killed only last week, on the extortion case, and he hadn't been assigned another yet. Instead he checked his sidearm and headed toward the source of the sound. He arrived at the entrance to the alleyway just in time to see a tall figure, dressed in a long dark coat, flash past and disappear into the night. Against his better judgement, Murphy followed.

Westlake didn't see the police officer standing at the entrance to the alleyway, too caught up in new thoughts of revenge. What kind of justice was this? Manufactured and artificial justice, all for the gain of one individual. But it worked. Why was this any worse than any other kind of justice then? The police department may be corrupt, but it achieved the same goals. This way, everyone could benefit. Wasn't this what the new age was all about? Mutual profit? Tolerance?

Confused, he was brought up short by a cry from an alley on his right. He stopped dead and turned. A man, being assaulted by some low-life. The Darkman strode down the alleyway, straining to see the scene in clearer detail. To his surprise, he could. And although he felt the anger again, the rage, he didn't see explosions in front of his eyes, didn't fly out of control. The rational scientist part of his mind wondered why. The rest simply remembered how he too had been accosted by thugs, grabbed in his own laboratory and beaten. The mugger looked up, and Westlake saw the face of Rick, the man who had shot Yakitito, who had stolen his hands. He swung his bony fist at the man, heard the crack with satisfaction, watched as he collapsed screaming, barely realising that his own scream was louder. The man rolled over, clutching his jaw. The face was one he did not recognise. Rick was dead, that couldn't be him anyway, but...

As he snapped back to reality, he realised that the man he had rescued was also quivering with fear; but there was gratitude in his eyes. "I am Darkman," growled Westlake. The thug heard this, scrambled to his feet and ran. Westlake watched him go; the satisfaction at the man's injury was still there. And then he realised - he was glad the man was hurt, not that the victim had been saved. And he felt nothing. Anger, but not rage. Cold. "I..." he began, not knowing what he had meant to say or how he intended to finish the sentence so he just ran, leaving the bewildered but grateful man behind him.

Murphy stood and watched as the figure barrelled down the alleyway, screaming in a chilling, almost feral way that made Murphy feel about two inches tall and faced with a large, hungry tiger; he shuddered convulsively. The man collided with the attacker and swung a powerful blow at his jaw. From the cracking sound, it was broken. The sheer force was frightening, the brutality of the charge. From the top of the alleyway, the police officer could just hear the rasping voice, ptyle="mso-spacerun: yes">  "I am Darkman," it said. Then the figure stopped. He just stopped moving, as if frozen in time and space. "I..." he uttered, but nothing followed it. Murphy was baffled. This man, this...thing...this Darkman, what was going through his head? Did he realise what he had just done? Was he in control? This guy had some serious issues to work out.

And then he turned, ran, and the night swallowed him. Murphy gulped. Crime had a new enemy that night. He considered following the Darkman, or talking to the guy he had rescued, but decided to head back to the station instead. Much safer.

As he ran, Peyton Westlake spent a few moments considering exactly where he was going. But he knew really. Who was it said that revenge is a dish best served cold? Tonight, he felt positively icy. "Bellisarius," he muttered to himself, "you're a dead man."

Police Chief Claude Bellisarius sat at his desk in the dark office. He had turned the lights off. Everyone else on this floor had gone home. Only the nightshift was left, two floors up. The phone call he had just received disturbed him. Jenny had had an encounter with this Darkman. She had told him everything, and that meant (although she had not said so specifically) that she had been terrified. That was enough for him to load his shotgun and his magnum .44 and put them somewhere conveniently at hand. Bellisarius had no doubt that the Darkman would be paying a visit, this new self-appointed lawman. Well, Bellisarius was not about to let this city out of his control. It was working beautifully, the criminals knew their places. 

Strack's death had been a blow, of course. All this trouble started with that damn memorandum. If only he hadn't let that slip out of his grasp, maybe Strack would still be alive. Dammit. Well, this Darkman wouldn't get far. The magnum alone should stop him, but Bellisarus knew that preparation was the key to success. And he was always prepared. So he sat, in the dark, and waited.

Police headquarters. Murphy got out of his squad car and rounded the corner from the officer parking lot. From the corner of his eye, he could have sworn that he had seen a shadow cross the entrance to the station. _Damn that Darkman, I'm seeing ghosts and shadows everywhere!_ he thought, trying to calm himself down. He headed up the steps.

The office floor was dark, the lights and computer terminals all turned off. He was reaching for the light switch when he saw a figure silhouetted in the frosted glass of the chief's door. Wearing a wide-brimmed hat. An intruder? Murphy's hand moved from the light switch to his service revolver. He unclipped it quietly and, gun in hand, crept toward the door, staying in the shadows. He approached the door and stopped, surprised as he heard a voice through the door. It was Bellisarius.

"I thought you'd come. Knew it wouldn't be long. Jenny called you see."

Peyton Westlake would have felt disgust had he not been so full of rage and thoughts of revenge. "You took bribes from Strack, the memorandum ended up in the flat above my lab, and the gangsters that **you **ignored did **this** to me!" He cried, tearing off the bandages from his face. His eyes took on a crazed look. "Like it, Bellisarius? Nice, eh? What a **freak** I am, yes? A **freak**!" He screamed and leapt over the desk at the leering gargoyle of a man in front of him. But Bellisarius was quick.

"Come on, Darkman, see sense," he appealed, only a touch of fear creeping into his voice. "You're angry, you want revenge, but this is the city we're talking about here. I have this place under control. There's always going to be organised crime in a big city, the only way to make sure it doesn't get out of hand is to organise it myself. Who better? We're not so different, you and I. We know what needs to be done to achieve our goals. Justice. Whatever the cost: the ends justifies the means."

Westlake was only enraged further, he lunged again, his sight now more than adequate in the low light. So he was blinded by the searing flash of the gun when Bellisarius fired. It took him a few seconds to realise that Bellisarius had shot him, and another couple to realise that he had shot him again and again and again. He fell, and the darkness was total.

Murphy stood, shocked. If it wasn't true, why had Bellisarius shot the Darkman? This was not justice, even less than this mysterious character's own methods. And now he was dead. Murphy suddenly felt very sick. He could barely believe it. This was not right. But what could he do?

Bellisarius stood over the man's body. Good riddance. A job well done. No crackpot freak of a vigilante superhero was going to mess up his town. No way. Justice was served. He was it.


	4. Later...

**Later...**

_a flash [my eyes!]. an impact. what? another impact. falling [so this is what it feels like to be shot]. blackness. a face, leaning over me, leering [no colours! my eyes!] - blackness [floating in and out of consciousness]. lifted up [snapshots, like strobe lighting]. a window, open. thrown - falling! the ground rushing up [**no!**]. _

_impact_

Murphy ran from the building, he didn't want to be there, had to get out. His entire life he had served justice, had wanted to protect this city, this city that had killed his parents, had put a young boy into an orphanage. And now he finally had the chance, he was working for a police force that put the 'organised' into 'organised crime'.

He ran down the steps, half falling, and collapsed against the side of the building at the entrance to an alley, drawing in great lungfuls of air; he felt sick. The darkness surrounded him, and he wondered what on earth he was going to do. Then he heard a noise, a rasping, dying rattle. He walked further down the alley, checking his sidearm. A bundle of rags on the ground - a person? He bent down, could now make out an old-fashioned black coat.

"Help me," it rasped. Then Murphy saw the hat, and reached down hesitantly to turn the creature over. He fell back when he saw the face, his legs crumpling beneath him. Bandages were hanging off it, and what was visible was horribly burnt and scarred. The hat, the coat, the voice - the Darkman. Still alive?! Murphy looked up. A window was open. Shot and thrown from the window and still alive?           

Murphy steeled himself and moved back to the man. "I'm going to get you an ambulance, to take you to the hospital." He felt a bony hand clutch his trouser leg and recoiled in terror. The Darkman tried to say something, but the grip suddenly went slack. Unconscious again. Or dead. Murphy had no time to lose.

_still dark. _help me!_ a figure. blue? [police! police! no!] ambulance? hospital! [no! they did this to me!] _no! I_..._

_darkness_

_light_

_can't see. eyesight clearing [what happened?]. shot! saved? police! I...The hospital. I'm in the hospital. Restrained! What have you done to me this time?! _What have you done to me?!

"Dr Campion?" 

Sally Campion looked up from her desk. It was an orderly. She sighed. Now what did they want from her? After the failure of her burns project she had become the laughing stock of the hospital. Probably she was needed to clean out some old lady's bedpan. 

"What is it, Michael?"

"It's your John Doe, Dr Campion - he's conscious, and trying to demolish his bed." _What?_ "The ward nurse said I should fetch you, so..."

"Woah, woah, time out! Michael, what John Doe? What are you talking about?" Michael rolled his eyes, and Sally tried not to lamp him - even the orderlies were treating he with contempt.

"One of your old burns clinic patients. You didn't know?" he said with disdain.

"No, I... From the burns clinic? Where is he?" _The burns clinic! _Filled with excitement, Sally followed the orderly. This was it! Her chance to regain her professional standing. _Calm, girl, calm - be objective, don't indulge false hopes. _"How did they know it was one of mine?"

"Something about hyper-stimulated adrenal glands, no receptivity to pain, and..." Michael stopped and pointed at a door on the left. "Well, look for yourself. The patient had to have several bullets removed, he's patched up like an old bicycle tyre, and he's restrained - he tried to attack the staff. The guy that sent for the ambulance is sitting in the waiting room just down the corridor. He's a police officer." He walked off. 

Sally glared at his retreating back. "Asshole," she muttered. She pushed open the door to the room, and stepped in. The man in the bed let out a chilling roar when he saw her.

"Who are you?" he screamed. She was slightly taken aback by this outburst, glad for the restraints - until she remembered that a clinic patient breaking out of restraints just like these ones was what had caused her fall from grace.

"I...I'm Doctor Campion, I'm here to help you. You were one of my patients, do you remember me?" 

Sally's spine was crawling - she had a bad feeling about this. It was not made any better when the man in the bed stopped struggling and just looked at her. She returned his gaze. And realised that it was a mistake. In those tortured eyes she saw pure hatred and rage, supernovae exploding. And she was afraid.

"**You!** You did this to me, you made me a monster!" he spat, rearing up again, the restraints breaking.

Then she recognised him - how could she forget? He was the one who had escaped. "We...I tried to help you," she retaliated indignantly, her fear dissipating in the face of her wounded sense of professional pride.

"You call **this** help?" he cried. "You've turned me into a **freak show**! I'm a **monster**!"

"You are not a monster, you just have overactive emotions," she pressed him, anger creeping into her voice. His response was a ferocious cry of anger. 

The something inside Dr Sally Campion snapped, all the pent-up emotions of the last couple of months surfaced. She was a professional, she was not responsible for creating monsters or freaks, she was a doctor, and she helped people.

"No!" she cried, bounded over to the bed and slapped the patient, open-palmed, full in the face with all her might. He stopped moving. 

Before she could turn away, she saw that his eyes were fastened on her. The rage was no longer there, except in the contorted expression of fury on her own reflected face. He was rasping something. _Oh no, don't tell me I've injured him, please no, my career would be over!_ It was a second before she realised that he was chuckling.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled.

"Don't be. You should have expected an extreme reaction, though. What was it you said? Violent mood swings?" His voice was still confrontational, but she didn't seem to notice.

"Hmm? Oh, when you were in the clinic first? Yes. I did. I was speaking to the hospital's chief research co-ordinator and his team that day. That was when you escaped wasn't it? Yes. That was the day they shut me down." Her eyes had a faraway look in them. She smiled weakly and looked at him. "No more monsters."

To her surprise, he looked as if he was going to cry. _Mood swings. Right_, she thought wryly.

"Help me." His voice was small, pleading.

She sighed. "I can't. I want to, I really do, but I don't know how to help you." She was too weary to care about the risk of another violent outburst. But the man said nothing. He just looked at her, helpless, fear rather than anger building up in his eyes.

She tried again. "The only person who can help you right now is...well...you. Have you noticed anything, anything at all, that has distracted you from your over-active emotions?" She expected no response, but his eyes lit up in a way she hadn't seen them do yet. It was the way one of her colleagues' eyes lit up when they solved some thorny problem.

"Yes! Yes, in an alleyway. It was dark, I tried to see better - I was angry - and I could see better, and the anger faded a bit!" The words came out in a rush. He was obviously excited, but for what reason? Sally looked at him, puzzled. "Scientific method!" he exclaimed. "Why should my anger fade because I could see better." He paused, and looked at her, his eyes shining. "Let me out of these restraints will you?" She complied with barely a second thought.

"Now," he lowered himself down from the bed and made his way to the chair in the corner of the room, "what is it about my eyesight that can affect my anger?" Sally couldn't help but be infected by his new-found enthusiasm.

"Er...when you see things in clearer focus, you're not quite so angry about everything?"

"No, that's psychological, my emotional problem is physiological in basis - because my brain no longer has pain input to process, it heightens my emotional states to extremes to compensate." He suddenly clicked his fingers. "That's it!" he turned to her. She shook her head. "The toothy smile that spread across his face turned his scarred visage into a hideous, grinning skull. She shivered at the contrast.

"No," she said, shaking herself, "I don't get it."

"My brain requires more stimulus to make up for what it's lost. Up to now, we've assumed that that stimulus came from extreme emotional reactions. But why couldn't it come from any other source? All of my senses provide input to my brain, so any one of them could compensate!"

Campion was getting excited now too. "So by heightening all your other senses, your brain wouldn't draw so heavily on your emotions! You'd have better control of yourself, and increased sensory acuity." She tried to keep hold of her scientific objectivity, but found it difficult. This could be her chance to get her burns clinic re-instated. "You'll have to work at it, though. Your default setting is wildly uncontrollable emotion, so to you'll have to consciously override that like you did in the alley. If your concentration ever slips..."

Neither of them needed to finish the sentence. "You need to work on it," she said "You can't go anywhere for a while, and you need to take it very easy while you recover. There are multiple gunshot wounds that need time to heal. Do you need anything?"

"He looked up at her. My equipment. I'm a scientist, I was working on a project. Most of my equipment has been destroyed, there are a couple of disk drives in an old warehouse down at the abandoned industrial plant. I can also tell you where I hid enough money to buy the necessary hardware. You..."

"Hold on, hold on, what's this project you were working on?"

He looked up at her as if it should be obvious. "Synthetic skin. Ironic, yes? I was in my lab when..." he stopped himself, clearly trying to avoid another outburst. She nodded, understandingly, she hoped.

"Alright - wait - synthetic skin?" _The burns clinic!_ was all she could think. "You can create synthetic skin? Then why didn't you..." she gestured at his face. He grunted.

"Why didn't I make myself a face? The skin isn't stable. After 99 minutes exposure to light the cells break down, and the skin melts. I'm...I **was** working on a way to fix it."

Her face fell. "You have no idea how much that would have helped my work." She immediately regretted saying it.

"Yes I do," he rasped. "But it can still work, I know it can. If you help me, you'll get your burns clinic back."

Murphy sat in the waiting room, thinking. This creature, this Darkman, if he recovered he had the power to rid the city of the corruption he had discovered. The police officer looked at his watch. It had been nearly 18 hours since he had brought the Darkman into the hospital. He had gone home, unable to sleep, and called in sick at the PD. He had just sat in the waiting room all day. A woman doctor had entered the room a few minutes ago; he had been watching the door of the room he knew they had taken the Darkman to. All he knew was what a nurse had told him, "Your friend's condition is stable," she had said.

He hadn't had the heart to tell her that the Darkman was not his friend, and that he suspected that the man's condition was far from stable. But he had the power, this dark figure, to change the things. Forcibly if necessary, but he could change them. Perhaps he didn't know it, perhaps he just wanted revenge on Bellisarius. Murphy didn't understand revenge. Bellisarius had sold out to the bad guys, and Murphy wanted to see him pay, he must be punished: Bellisarius had committed a crime after all. But Murphy didn't want revenge. He simply wanted justice. He stood up.

The doctor had left. Hope had entered his heart, for the first time in too long. He was angry still, very angry, but he could wait. He would bide his time, build up his lab again, maybe even help this doctor, and then take his revenge on the 'law'. His reverie was broken by the door opening. Before him stood a figure dressed in blue. The figure started to speak, but he didn't hear the words. Before him stood the law, but he didn't see it. He saw Julie. Everything that he had lost, because of the 'law'. His world contracted down to that single face. Everything else went black.

The roar of pain, rage and despair that he let out was heard down the hall. So was the sound of the impact against the door.

Murphy walked into the Darkman's hospital room. The man was sitting in the corner of the room; Murphy couldn't see his deformed face. Probably a good thing, since his confidence was draining slowly away. Better get it said, then. "You have to help me, help this city, because you can do that, you can get justice done, you..." the words came out in a rush, but stopped when the Darkman rose, his eyes flashing dangerously, his expression one of fury. Murphy backed away, the expression of fear on his face turning to terror when the Darkman let out a bellow of rage.

Murphy turned and fumbled the door handle, but his attacker was faster than he looked, and was across the room in a moment. He slammed into the policeman and the door at the same time, but then drew in a rasping, gasping breath and fell back, clutching his chest. Blood was soaking his hospital-issue shirt; he couldn't breathe. Murphy turned around again and just stood gaping. He could hear the Darkman say something, but by the time he had bent down to listen, the man was unconscious.

Before Murphy raced out of the room to get an orderly, or a nurse, or **someone**, his brain had enough time to register that it had sounded like the Darkman was repeating the name 'Julie'.

_blackness replaced by light blurred blue grey [can't move!] and _

"Good afternoon. How do you feel?"

The Darkman opened his eyes fully, blinked once and fastened his eyes on the man in the police uniform sitting on the chair on the other side of the room. "I attacked you." A statement of fact.

"Yes, you did. You managed to re-open a couple of the bullet wounds as well." Murphy was uneasy still. The Darkman had adjusted too easily to the light, too quickly. He remembered what the doctor had said, that the Darkman had the ability to consciously sharpen all his senses. He shivered.

"Ah. Well, it seems I am restrained, so I don't think I'll be attacking anyone for a while. Who are you and what do you want?"

"My name is Todd Murphy, and I want you to help me change this city."

The Darkman was silent for a moment, and then started wheezing hideously. Murphy was at first taken aback; then realised that the other man was laughing. "You...want **me**...to become a crime fighter?"

Murphy felt his face going red. "Yes, because you can," he replied, offended and a little angry at being mocked. "I overheard your little confrontation with Bellisarius, and you have to stop him. Maybe that's why I brought you here in the first place."

The Darkman stopped laughing. "You saved my life, then? Thank you. But perhaps it would have better if you hadn't." He closed his eyes (was that a tear?) and rested his head back against the pillow. His fists were balled, but he wasn't straining against the restraints. Murphy took this as a good sign. Still, the police officer felt nervous when the Darkman looked back up. There was no anger in his eyes, but there was...something else, something cold.

"Very well," was all he said.

Encouraged, Murphy began again. "You can work on increasing the effectiveness of your senses - the doctor told me all about it! - and then you'll be better, your emotions won't be as much of a problem. You'll need to train hard though."

Peyton Westlake shook his head, wondering at the sudden boyish enthusiasm of the man, like this was some kind of childhood dream for him. Maybe it was. _My lab, I must have my lab back!_ he thought. He would move it to another part of the industrial plant as well, somewhere Julie couldn't find him. He had to tell that doctor what to get for him. And this police officer, he could be useful. There was a lot to do.


	5. New Beginnings

**New Beginnings.**

The Darkman lay in his hospital bed, healing. The doctor, Campion, visited him often, and the police officer occasionally stopped by as well. He felt no pain, but found that if he concentrated hard, he could sense where he was injured. Once, he thought he could even feel the wounds close, could feel the new cells grow. It didn't last long, and he had to practically stopped breathing. He did, however, feel calmer than he had since...before. His ability to improve his vision, hearing, and sense of smell got better every day. And his revenge would be that much sweeter and swifter for it. Let Murphy think his intention was to fight crime in the city. It didn't matter. Nothing else did.

Todd Murphy returned to his work, but found he could not concentrate. He desperately wanted to help this Darkman, but knew that it was really only so that he could see justice done. Well, mostly. There was still a little apprehension though; and he had not plucked up the courage to ask who 'Julie' was. He started hatching plans, ways to expose his chief, but knew that they needed hard evidence, evidence of all the various pies in which Bellisarius had his fingers buried. An idea was forming in his mind, as he remembered the first night he had met the Darkman, and what he had been told about that night by the Darkman himself. But he would need the Darkman's help if it was to work. So Murphy waited.

Sally Campion went around in a state of perpetual excitement. She had found the Darkman's stash easily, and had bought all the equipment he had asked for. As per instructions, she had set it all up in another part of the industrial plant - underground, below the warehouse that had been the lab's home until the Darkman had blown it up himself. She understood some of the technology, marvelled at the innovative techniques, but admitted to herself that only the 'Darkman' (_What was his real name?_ she often wondered) knew how it really worked. And it could make all her work, her life's pursuit, viable and even better. Not only did she have the chance to study a patient of her old clinic at close range - she knew of his plans to become a crime-fighter, thanks to the irrepressible Todd Murphy - she also had the added bonus of the possibility of synthetic skin. The stage was set.

"I'm ready to leave, aren't I?"

The question caught her by surprise. "That's what you came to tell me, yes?" She nodded.

"Yes. How did you know?"

"I can feel it. I know my wounds have healed. How long has it been? That I'm not sure of."

"Just under three weeks. Your powers of recuperation are astounding. Conscious effort?" She knew what the answer would be, but wasn't quite sure she could believe it. All this with the power of a mind deprived of pain? Theoretically the 'everything-else-as-a-mental-substitute' idea was interesting and possible, but it wasn't scientifically quantifiable. And pain was useful, every biologist knew that. So where were the drawbacks? There had to be some, there...

"Yes. I can do more than I imagined would be possible. Not bad for a freak." 

Campion never knew when he was being serious, when he was mocking himself, or when he would fly into a rage. _I guess the state of his mental health could be put down as a drawback_, she thought wryly to herself. Out loud she said, "You should go. Murphy is waiting."

His head snapped up. "Murphy? What does he want?"

"He has an idea for your first act as the newest crime fighter in the city," she said, amused.

"You know about that?" 

She nodded again. "If you need any help..."

He inclined his head toward her, and walked past her and out of the room. She stood, slightly surprised at the suddenness of his departure. She shook her head and smiled. This was going to be interesting. And unpredictable.

It was a dark night. No light shined through the thick layers of cloud over the city. But Peyton Westlake could see just fine. He was the Darkman. He moved silently through the back alleys, searching for the one that he had visited that night, three weeks ago. He found it. And his target was standing outside, alone. Foolish. He smiled grimly and made his way down the alley, creeping up behind his victim. "Remember me?" he whispered.

Jenny turned, saw - no, it couldn't be - "**You**!" She had no time to react as he grabbed her, placed his hand over her mouth, and wrapped his free arm around her, pinning her arms to her side. He physically lifted her and carried her into the shadows.

"Yes, me. And if you make a move for the knife I know you have concealed away, I'll break your neck. I just came to give you a message: it's over. Bellisarius' little secret - well, one of them - is out of the bag. Namely, you. The fool kept business records of all his dealings with you."

Jenny mentally cursed Bellisarius, for screwing up that and for not finishing this creature off permanently. She tried to speak, and the Darkman removed his hand from her mouth, warning her to be quiet.

"He will hunt you down and he will kill you!" she spat. "He runs this city, and he runs its muscle. He doesn't always go out in the middle of the night to beat up prostitutes himself. You don't stand a chance, you're just a man in a big coat, an old hat, and some head bandages!"

Westlake spun her around to face him, his eyes narrowed, gleaming. "I am the Darkman!" he exclaimed. He whipped his coat up in front of her face and she threw her hands in front of her eyes, a reflex reaction.

When she could see again, the Darkman had vanished.

Bellisarius was in his office the next day when the call came. "Bellisarius," he said, answering it. It was Jenny. "You fool, what are you doing calling me here?" he hissed at her.

"I'm a fool, am I? Well, I'm not the one who thought it'd be a good idea to not only keep a record of my illegal dealings and racketeering, but also to leave them lying around for some freak with a severe skin condition to find!"

"Jenny, what the hell are you talking about? Nobody knows about my dealings with you and your little whorehouse, and I certainly don't keep records of...skin condition? That damnable Darkman's back?!"

"Yes, you couldn't even kill him could you? No wonder you couldn't keep your records from him!"

"I don't keep any records, woman! I'm not that stupid. I know exactly what you owe me." He paused. "Wait a minute - he told you this? What did he say?" A sinking feeling descended on the police chief.

"He said that it was over, that he had your private records, or something."

"Did he say where he'd gotten them?"

"No! And you just said you didn't keep any!"

"I don't," Bellisarius said thoughtfully. Then his voice took on a tone of finality. "Maybe he was just trying to scare you. Get off this line and don't call me here again. I'll contact you shortly for your next payment toward your protection." He slammed the phone down hard enough to knock the it off the desk. He cursed, and bent to pick it up. That was when he noticed the small piece of metal attached to the bottom of it. A police-issue phone-tapping device. The bit of paper stuck next to it read, '_I heard you. And I'm not going to go away. DM._' **Darkman!**

Murphy, who was walking past the door to the police chief's office, heard Bellisarius' cry of fury, and smiled with satisfaction.

It was evening, and the sun had set when Murphy and Campion arrived at the agreed meeting place. The sky was a deep, dark blue, nearly black, and there was very little light - only a sliver of moonlight shone through the clouds. The shadows were deep; this was not a good time to be on the streets in this part of the city. The dirty buildings loomed up around the pair.

"Maybe he isn't coming after all," said Campion, shivering at the cold.

"No, he'll be here. I know it," Murphy assured her, and looked around. He jumped back as Westlake melted out of the shadows.

"Here. Take it, he growled from under the brim of his hat. His coat was wrapped tightly around him, the bottom flapping in the breeze. He held out a hand with a cassette tape in. "Your little gadget worked." Murphy grinned.

"That's great!"

"Why is she here?" The dark figure nodded at Campion. The doctor stepped forward.

"I wanted to see how you were doing."

"I'm fine," was the reply, although it was clear from his tone that he was not fine in the least.

Murphy, oblivious, was still bubbling. "This is great! We've started bringing justice to this city..." he broke off, unsure what to call him. "Er...what should I call you?"

Murphy felt uncomfortable addressing this man; he seemed indifferent, even annoyed with their success.

The figure looked up slightly, and Murphy could see two eyes, narrow and yellow, underneath the brim of the hat. The rest of the face was in shadow, but he could see the corner of a malformed mouth, bare, lipless teeth glinted a little, the skin around them charred. When the words came, the voice was hard, cold, guttural, and so vicious that Murphy physically stepped back.

"My name was Peyton Westlake. But you can call me Darkman. And I know nothing of justice. That word is yours, not mine. Deceive yourself all you wish, but I will not -  I call it what it is: revenge. And I will have mine. I **will** have my revenge!"

With that, the Darkman spun on his heel. He stalked off into the night, and the darkness swallowed him.

O.M. 8-6-01


End file.
